Eugene Mallard's wife was looking at it with her soul in her eyes.
"Poor little waif!" she sighed; "it was very fortunate in securing a home with you."
"Thank you, Mrs. Mallard," said the woman. "We are poor and plain people, but we will do what we can for the poor little thing."
She was about to pass on, thinking she had taken up too much of the lady's time with her story.
Suddenly Ida turned, her beautiful dark eyes heavy with tears.
"Would you mind letting me hold the baby for just one minute?" she asked, wistfully.
"No, certainly not," replied the woman, with a pleasant smile.
Again that thrill which she could hardly define shot through her as she received the babe from the woman's arms. She bent her face over the little rose-leaf one that lay upon her breast. Her lips moved, but no sound came from them.
It seemed to rend her very heart-strings to relinquish her hold of the infant—to hand it back to the woman who waited to receive it. The moments seemed to fly by on golden wings.